


Five Ways of Looking at Fred Burkle

by likeadeuce



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-14
Updated: 2010-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-07 06:40:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likeadeuce/pseuds/likeadeuce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Throughout 'Angel' season 5, Fred and Wesley's relationship grows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Ways of Looking at Fred Burkle

I. Just Rewards

Fred is wearing her old glasses, the red teardrop frames Wesley bought out of company money that first summer, when Angel wasn't around to be cheap about it. He ended up taking her to three different eyeglass-shops, because Fred wouldn't go in for an exam until they assured her she could have an exact replica of _those frames_ \- the same ones that had held up five years in Pylea; good craftsmanship, Wesley had to admit. Finally, they found a merchant willing to special-order the glasses, and he still had to take Fred back for several readjustments because – it transpired – she had eagerly agreed every time the doctor asked, "Does this make it better?" and got a prescription five times the strength she needed.

Now the two of them stand alone in the elevator at Wolfram and Hart, facing each other but pressed against opposite walls. Sid with the mail truck has bailed, unexpectedly, on level three, and now Wesley and Fred are alone together, and the last time he can remember that happening was in the office that wasn't his anymore back at the Hyperion, telling her it was wrong and trying to kiss her anyway, Fred not exactly taking part but not exactly saying 'no,' and Charles bursting in and everything going even more pear-shaped than it had been already. But no, there was another time, Wesley trying to explain what he hardly understood, about himself and about Lilah. _It's not always about holding hands_ \-- Did he really say that? Could he possibly have been such a melodramatic twat?

It all feels like the distant past. It wasn't, of course. Only a matter of months. Better counted in weeks, really. Yet it feels not only far away but indefinably altered, as though they have slipped, without first knowing, into one of the infinite parallel-but-slightly-askew universes that Fred herself had theorized; supersymmetry, a world without shrimp, a permanent blur in the corner of one eye throwing everything just so slightly off.

Wesley wonders whether they really are the same glasses.

Fred looks across the space between them and he's sure she's as dazed and exhausted as he is, but she eases into a smile.

He smiles back. "I like your frames."

Fred's hand darts to her face. "What? These old things?"

She isn't teasing, the way Cordelia or. . .someone else would have been. It wrings his heart a little to see how this brilliant beautiful woman can still be rendered self-conscious by a compliment. Especially because he recognizes the feeling, and he hates that he's made her uneasy, even by accident. "You don't wear them as much anymore. That's all I meant. . .I was only telling you I noticed."

He was conditioned to such pleasantries by Cordelia, ever likely to descend into a minor tantrum if it took him a few hours (or, all right, weeks) to notice she had done something apparently important with her hair. But now Fred gives him a quizzical look, and he remembers there's such a thing as noticing too much, and for the first time it hits him what he's agreed to in coming here. Not only working for the Senior Partners and whatever evil they represent. He isn't at ease with that, but he has at least bothered to consider it. This is a new realization: that coming here will mean seeing them every day -- people who were once his friends, who then weren't, who have him back now, not because they are family, but because he can be useful.

He has no idea what they are to each other anymore.

"It's been a long time for you, huh?" Fred steps closer, looking up at him curiously.

"What?" Wesley stammers.

She raises a finger to her face and pokes one teardrop lens. "I can't remember the last time I saw you in yours."

"Ahh," he says, comprehension dawning. "No. I've been wearing contact lenses. Easier for --." And he mimes doing something with an axe.

"Okay, see, we thought maybe the lasers." Even for Fred, this is a dizzying segue -- is she asking about some new weapon he's supposed to be on top of? -- He looks at her blankly, until she adds, "The laser surgery. For your eyes."

"Oh. No," he says, then involuntarily, "We?"

"Me-and-Knox we. He got the laser thing done last year. I said I -- you -- I didn't see you for a while, and then you didn't wear them anymore and he said maybe – you need to get off?"

"What?"

"Your floor." The door slides open.

"Right. Yes. Thank you." Wesley nods and backs out of the elevator.

Fred pushes her glasses up on the bridge of her nose and waves him goodbye.

 

II. Hell-Bound

Wesley's first surprise: he is good at his new job. Not merely competent -- although in his previous employment experiences, competence has hardly been a foregone conclusion -- but excellent. Forceful, effective, efficient, occasionally brilliant. There is no vanity involved in making this observation. On the contrary; Wesley knows exactly what it feels like to be completely out of his depth and that is how he can recognize the way every project he touches is turning to gold, the way his employees are responding to his leadership, that the difficult period of adjustment he anticipated simply hasn't happened. And perhaps none of this should be a surprise. His early duties at council headquarters; his disastrous stint as active watcher and self-appointed rogue demon hunter; his role at Angel Investigations, first as associate, then as leader -- with Angel and without him; finally, the past year of running his own shop -- all of these experiences add up to a remarkable ledger sheet of do's and don'ts which, arguably, make him uniquely qualified to run this division. "Occult" is the official name; "research" to the outside world. He has a sneaking suspicion that under the old regime, his work would have been classified among "special projects." His early success, then, feels a little bit like Lilah Morgan's last joke.

Wesley's second surprise: the new job makes him happy. Not Gene-Kelly-swinging-from-lamposts- and-singin'-in-the-rain kind of happy. He doubts such a feeling is available to him anymore. If it ever was, he suspects the events of the last few years have killed it. But the everyday contentment of being absorbed in a good day's challenging and satisfying work, unfettered by uncertainty and second-guesses, and going home to sleep soundly, and contentedly alone, in the knowledge of a job well done -- well, that he can have. It even feels absurdly virtuous. When he stops to think about it, he is certain this can't be correct. They've made a deal with an evil institution; at best, they are working to make it less evil, and that's hardly a phrase he would include in a mission statement. Nonetheless, he has made the choice to do this job, and so there is no value he can see in stopping himself from feeling good about it. So he doesn't stop, he doesn't think, and for now that seems to be working. Wesley has read about this kind of unconscious certainty; psychologist call it 'flow," and, for the time being, he has decided to follow its lead.

But if Wesley is flowing, on this particular morning, he suspects that Fred is not. She looks not so much in a zone as dazed and exhausted when she walks into the office, slaps a piece of paper on his desk, and says, "_I need these as soon as possible_."

She's half walked out again before he can say, "_Hello, Wesley. Nice to see you._" Gently teasing, a way he couldn't imagine a few weeks ago. But things are settling, slowly, between them, growing more comfortable.

The idea that she can take him for granted gives him an odd sense of comfort. In a moment, she seems to realize what she's done and simply says, "_Oh. Sorry. Little preoccupied._"

He looks at the paper and can see why. "_The Magdalene Grimoire, Necronomicon des Mortes, Hochstadter's Treatise on Fractal Geometry in 12-dimensional Space. 'Preoccupied' might not be the word we're looking for._"

"_How fast can I get 'em?_"

He's tempted to ask whether she's planning to synthesize red mercury or whip up a little cold fusion over lunch break. Even the template books have a limited capacity for how much they can call up at a time, and the _Grimoire_ requires a specific mystical invocation, and a ritual sacrifice -- quadruped of course -- before it can even be opened. But she's not being demanding, merely a bit naive, and Wesley generally tries to hold his considerable skill at sarcasm in reserve for people who actively deserve it. Besides, he may as well enjoy being good at his job. Walking towards her, he crosses his arms and says gravely -- the way he imagines Rupert Giles would say it; half-regretting he no longer wears glasses that he could pretend to clean. _ "Half of these are antiquities of the rarest order. If I exploit every connection I've made over the last month as the new head of research and intelligence...20 minutes."_

_"Great,_" says Fred, not looking maybe quite so impressed as he would have liked. "_Let me know when they're in._" And she moves off, without half that lightness of step that ought to go with Fred.

"_Under one condition,_" he calls after her. "_Dinner._"

She freezes.

Now Wesley has time to think about what it sounds like he meant. He's almost sure that's not what he meant when the words left his mouth. But now the words are out there. He thinks of a nice bistro near the old hotel, one he can actually afford for the first time since moving to Los Angeles. He thinks of relaxing together, over a bottle of wine, because if they really are becoming friends, well, they ought to behave like friends sometimes outside of the office. And sometimes friends turn into something else. . . He remembers her red dress from the night at the ballet, the blinding white of her shoulders and the wisps of hair spilling down over them --

_"Oh, I, uh --"_ says Fred, and in that moment Wesley realizes that he isn't half as afraid that she'll say 'no' as he is that she'll say 'yes.' Things are working out here; he's achieving acceptable happiness; he has flow. Why in the hell would he be thinking about disrupting that delicate balance?

And she really does look as though she hasn't eaten in a month. That was all he meant by suggesting dinner.

"_I mean you, having one, a real one,_. He sees her relax, visibly, and doesn't allow himself to ponder whether he is more relieved or hurt. No stopping. No thinking. Not now.

For now, Wesley is going with his flow.

 

III. Life of the Party

As the elevator doors slide shut, Fred grabs Wesley's shoulder and pushes him against the wall.

With the dilated pupils and earnest, overenunciated diction of the highly intoxicated, she declares, "My nodes is numb!"

Wesley turns his head down slowly to look in her dark eyes. He expects to smell alcohol on her breath, but of course she hasn't really been drinking. There's a spell; somehow, it's all Lorne's doing. Her palm presses harder into his shoulder. They have touched each other more in the past hour than in the previous two and a half years. She leans closer into him so he can almost see down her blouse, where he is fairly certain that she isn't wearing a brassiere. "Numb could be bad," he mumbles. "What did you say is numb?"

"My nodes!" she repeats insistently. "My nodes is numb. Is your nodes numb?" To clarify, she lifts a finger and presses it to the tip of his nose.

_Definitely not,_ he thinks, since what she is doing hurts quite a bit -- he's still recovering from being hit in the face by a startled monkey at the weekly Moringean Holy Day service, which Angel 'suggested' he attend for 'the sake of employee morale.' Still, Wesley lets her press his nose for a little longer. Her fingers smell like pumpkin spice and at first he thinks it's from the punch, but then he detects a mixture of soap, and he guesses that she has replaced the lab's usual disinfectants with something seasonably festive. Finally, he raises his hand to her wrist and moves it gently from his face.

"My nose is all right," he tells her. "Maybe something happened to yours. From the spell."

"From the spell!" She twirls away from him, and starts to pound buttons on the elevator's number bank. "We gotta get upstairs and fix the spell!"

He moves up behind her and holds her hand back. "That's not going to get us upstairs any faster," he points out. As if to demonstrate, the elevator stops on the next floor, and opens, although no one is there.

"Oops," Fred giggles, covering her mouth. "Hey, why do you think Angel sent the drunk-faced people up to fix the spell?"

Wesley leans forward, pointing a finger in her face. "That. Miss. Burkle. Is an EXCELLENT. Question. Maybe he was distracted." _By having sex with Eve,_ Wesley decides not to add. He will have time to think about that one later; at the moment, it hurts his brain. There is plenty to keep him occupied right here in the elevator.

Fred laughs harder now, doubling over, and she definitely isn't wearing a bra. He turns his head aside, while Fred goes to hit the express-override key that will take the elevator straight to the top floor. Then she turns, stumbles into him again, and says, "I liked it when we were dancing."

She gets on her toes, twirls, and falls laughing into the arms he has just managed to hold out. He braces a hand behind her head. She looks up at him, and it would take about two movements to raise her mouth to his -- to lean down and meet her lips. From there, a few seconds to lift her body and press her against the wall. Hardly any work to get his hands under that short skirt; no nylons, he's certainly noticed that, so just a millimeter of cotton between her and his fingers. Only if she gives him the right signals, of course. He'll give her a chance to say 'no,' but he thinks she'll say 'yes.' They're both drunk and mystically-influenced, and nobody can blame what you do under a spell, it's not as though they chose it to happen like this. Besides, there seems to be a lot of mystical love going around tonight; they can decide tomorrow if it's a mistake, pretend it never happened and at least he won't be wondering, he'll have her out of his system.

_Yes. Wham, bam, forget all about her. That's bloody likely._

"Stand up, Fred," he sighs, raising her upright. Apparently, there's not enough mystical influence in the universe to make Wesley forget who he is.

"_Ding_," she giggles.

The elevator door opens, and he follows her as she staggers into the storage room.

*

An hour later, and everything is fixed. At least, the spell is reversed, Lorne is better and client relations -- fortunately, not Wesley's problem at the moment -- are on the way to damage control.

There's no doubt about it. Even totally drunk-faced, in her own words, Fred Burkle has saved the evening. And Wesley helped, a little. On top of that, the two of them spent the whole time together. She smelled like pumpkin spice, and she wasn't wearing a bra. As far as these things go, he's seen worse parties. He decides to propose that he and Fred, the evening's big damn heroes, have a real, private drink together, in celebration.

And he looks over and he sees she's already had the same idea, and is downing a real drink of her own. With Knox. Knox who she works and laughs with everyday; Knox who sides with her in arguments against Wesley. Knox who would have taken Fred to the party, while Wesley stayed in his library obsessively reviewing the spells from the failed auto-caster, if Lorne hadn't shown up and used his enchanted suggestion powers -- quite accidentally -- to rearrange the couples.

Wesley pulls the jacket over his shoulders, lets out a heavy sigh, and hears the words in his mind, as clear as any persuasion spell. _Let Fred go on and live her life. And as for you, Wesley? Learn how to lose._

 

IV. Harm's Way

People usually forget about Harmony's super-vampire hearing, but it's totally not her fault. She might look fairly, well, harmless, but it's not like she planned it that way. The vampire detectors and the blood tests are bad enough, but it would be majorly unfair if they wanted her to walk around in her vampire face all the time. Nobody expects Angel to do that and, besides, it's twice the work in the morning if she has to get both faces made up. So, basically, what it comes down to is if people want to conduct their super-secret conversations and they just happen to do that within Harmony's (very large) earshot? She isn't going to get all apologetic about it. And besides, she totally gets the best gossip that way.

This time it's Fred and Wesley huddled together by the door to his office.

"The girls in transcription are saying _what_ about me?" Wesley demands.

"Well, you know, Wesley. I can sort of see where it comes from."

"You _can_? Because I think it's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard."

"Well, you have to admit. You and Angel. Your relationship is pretty complicated. It's even hard for me to describe. So I can see how people who didn't know you would come up with – theories. It's not a completely unreasonable one."

"Yes, Fred. It is EXTREMELY unreasonable. And why would employees be theorizing about – that - in the first place? Are you sure they don't have me confused with Spike."

"Wesley," Fred answers. "Nobody will ever confuse you with Spike."

"I assume you mean that as a compliment."

Fred steps away from him and gives a little smile. "Assume whatever you want. I think you should come down to the breakroom and have lunch with everybody, and they'll see it isn't true."

"Now, Fred, I hardly see how that would prove – I mean, even if I was - I could still – "

They are so adorable together, Harmony can hardly stand it. She's known pretty much from day one that Wesley has a thing for Fred, and recently, Fred confirmed that she knew it too. What it's taken Harmony longer to be sure of is that Fred likes him back. She likes him back a lot. Maybe _she's_ not even a hundred percent sure of it herself. But Harmony knows.

Fred just isn't sure what to do about it, yet, that's the problem. It's like the way Devon crushed on Harmony all through junior high. Of course, she was pretty much forced to pretend he didn't exist. He was in _marching band_! But then the summer between ninth and tenth grade, it was like Harmony blinked and there was Devon, cool long-hair guitar guy, and _Cordelia_ wanted to date him, which totally wasn't a surprise, because she had never even noticed he existed before, and she just kind of assumed he was new in school. Harmony, though, suddenly liked Devon a lot, and she thought it would be super-easy to get his attention, but it just wasn't. It had taken her a while to figure out exactly the right approach to get him to notice her noticing. (For the record? Oral sex. Cordy was still a little squeamish about blow jobs back in tenth grade).

Wesley and Fred are pretty much exactly the same situation as Harmony and Devon. (She's not sure who's Cordelia here. Maybe Knox?) She wants to give Fred the benefit of her experience and tell her to go for it, though she hasn't worked out how to phrase her advice, exactly. It might be a little more complicated than "blow jobs" because Wesley _is_ an adult and, even though he's English, he could probably find somebody else to go down on him. But then again, it's not like he's going to say 'no.' He may be Wesley, but he's still a guy.

Harmony definitely needs to have that talk with Fred soon. But for right now, she's just super-excited that they're coming down to the break room and she can _show_ those girls from transcription how well she really does know the rock stars of the firm. Plus, if the girls see them together, they will know that Harmony is right about who Fred Burkle should really be with. And once Wes and Fred get together? Harmony has totally decided to ask out Knox.

Now, she swoops down and says – all innocent, like she hasn't heard them; she just doesn't want them to be uncomfortable! -- "Wes! Fred! I was just headed down to lunch. You guys should totally join me. It would be completely awesome for morale."

Wesley kind of looks down at her. "Last time I did something for morale, a monkey nearly took my nose off."

Fred reaches past Harmony and smacks Wesley's shoulder -- _Omigod, the touching!_ Harmony thinks. _They are so in love and they don't even know it. Just like Dawson and Pacey!_

"Come on, guys," Harmony says, herding them to the elevator. "Everybody tries to get down there in time to be out of there before 'Passions' starts." Before they can ask, Harmony explains, "It's better to let Spike have his privacy."

"Harmony," says Wesley, as the doors to the elevator close. "Tell me the truth, are the girls in transcription really saying that I'm – ?"

Fred stands behind Wesley, shaking her head vigorously, and Harmony jumps in with, "Oh God, no!"

He turns a little glare – A love glare! Obviously! -- at Fred. "How did she know what I was going to say?"

Fred has good intentions, but Harmony can see Wesley's not an idiot. "I'm sure Fred's right – I mean, I'm sure it's just because of you and Angel having this sort of mysterious relationship for so long. Honestly, Wes, when I first met the two of you? Well, if I didn't know better, I might have thought -- "

"You might?" Wes shakes his head. "Harm, I'd think you of all – beings could -- well, couldn't you smell it on me if --?"

"Smell?" Harmony repeats, indignantly, because that question is just plain weird. "That's not something you can smell." Which is sort of shame because scratch and sniff gaydar would be totally useful.

"You couldn't detect my body temperature?" Wes demands. "Or my scent signature or bloodclaim markings or — What kind of vampire can't tell a human from a vampire?"

Now Harmony is totally confused. "Wes," she says, "There is not any rumor I heard about you being a – " And then she looks to see Fred, who is giving her what is totally not a love glare. "Oh!" says Harmony. "That rumor."

"Yes," Wesley frowns. "What did you think I meant?"

The elevator opens and they start out, but Harmony puts a hand on Fred's shoulder "Fred," she whispers, "I never heard any rumor about Wesley being – "

"I know," Fred answers. "But he hasn't been eating or going out in the day. I told him everybody thought that Angel had turned him, because it was the only way I could convince him to take a break for lunch."

Wesley stops and looks at both of them.

"What are you two whispering about?" he demands.

"Angel!" says Harmony, brightly. "What _is_ the deal with him and that werewolf girl?"

 

V. Smile Time

"Wesley!" Fred gasps. "Hold that door."

Standing alone in the elevator, Wesley presses the 'open' button and watches Fred, with grace and skill worthy of a vampire slayer, scuttle across the lobby in a pair of highly improbable shoes. Melvin, a midlevel shaman from the cryptography department, sees his boss holding the door open and, quite reasonably, attempts to enter. Fred skids past him and holds out a hand to keep him back.

"Full," she announces, despite the obvious evidence.

Melvin casts appealing eyes – three of them – toward Wesley, who shrugs and says, "Accident with an invisibility ray. Not to worry. Ms. Burkle and I have it under control."

The doors shut, and Wesley looks to Fred, uncertain what expression to show her. "Why, hello. I haven't seen you in minutes."

Fred reaches for the control panel and hits the override code that will take them straight to the top floor without stopping. Then she raises a hand to his breastbone, pushes Wesley against the wall, and starts to kiss him.

It's different than the handful of times they have kissed before. Those were gentle, exploratory kisses, each carrying a question – "Do you?" "Should we?" or even the Prufrockian classic, "Do I dare?" In those moments Wesley felt, not only that they were new to each other, but that the kiss itself were a new ritual, or an unproven theorem, and they had to invent each new step as they went along.

Apparently, you couldn't kiss that way in an elevator.

Fred's lips meet his mouth, quick and shallow, dancing over his cheek and neck and newly-shaven chin, and at first he can hardly respond in kind, because he can't take hold of her long enough to land one. He's trying to kiss sunlight.

"Fred –" he says, sighing contentedly. Then with a slight plea -- "Fre-ed." He puts his a hand to her chin, hoping to slow her, give his lips a chance to do some work of their own.

Their eyes meet. She leans back in, arms around his neck, and lets her tongue play on the edge of his mouth. Now the question isn't "What are we doing?" or "Do we dare?" but something more immediate – "When?" "How?" "What will it mean?" and of course –

"You know they have security cameras in these elevators -- right?" Wesley thinks it's only fair to tell her.

"Oooh, Wes." She leans closer to him and murmurs, "Your brain goes to some amazing places." She brings her lips up to touch his chin, then stops. Still half-kissing him, she says, "You were saying that as a reason _not_ to do it."

"Well," he admits, "That was my first thought, though at this rate everyone will know within a week."

"Gossip diffuses according to his own laws," she says, touching her lips to his earlobe. "Like a gas particle on a random walk. We don't need to add any energy to the system to help it spread. But it's going to come out on its own."

"Absolutely," he purrs, and he's idiot enough to add, "but I have a meeting in seven minutes," before he realizes that her hand is moving for his belt.

"Seven?" Her thumb stops to rest on the buckle.

He swallows, doesn't move, because part of him knows they're on the job and the meeting he needs to walk into at ten AM has implications that are, quite literally, earth-shaking. The other, much louder, part wonders if she is about to get on her knees, and knows there is no way in any of the multiverse's numerous hell dimensions that he is going to ask her to stop.

But then her hand moves up to rest on his stomach and she sighs regretfully. "Yeah. Me too." Her lips touch his cheek, and she whispers. "I just wanted to remind you what we're missing by being so damn busy all the time."

"Tease," he grumbles.

"Me?" She pulls back and looks him in the eye, at which point Wesley has to admit to himself that _he_ is the one who has ended each of their previous sessions with, a mumbled, _Yes this is very nice but we ought to take a little time and think about what it is we're doing._

He raises a hand to squeeze her bare shoulder. "I just want to do this right," he tells her. "I'll take you on a proper date. Soon."

"We're supposed to help Angel burn down some kind of demon slugnest tonight," Fred points out. "You're saying that's not proper enough?"

He smiles, touches her neck, and, with the few seconds they have left, takes a last quick kiss.

The elevator rings at the top floor. Fred wipes his face with the back of her hand. "Watch it or he'll smell the lip gloss on you." She steps back from him, just as the doors open to reveal Angel, brow turned down, tapping fingers on his crossed elbow. Now Fred crosses her own arms and says, "Honestly! Why do you always assume the problem is with the science and not with the spells?"

"I check the spells myself," Wesley says, falling easily into a rhythm of an argument, wondering whether this kind of ease is a good sign.

"I check the science myself," Fred snaps back.

"Oh, really? You do – personally?"

"If this is about your issues with Knox –" She gives a meaningful lift to her eyebrows, and Wesley doesn't catch her smiling even a bit, until she turns and says brightly, "Angel! You're – not a puppet!"

Wesley steps out of the elevator, pats the vampire's shoulder and assures him, "You're still cute, though." He looks over his shoulder at Fred and doesn't smile at all as he says. "Get that fixed. No excuses."

"Get over yourself, Wesley!" She waves as the doors shut, "Bye, Angel Not-a-Puppet!"

The elevator dings, and Angel scowls. "I needed you in the conference room ten minutes ago to set up the transdimensional interface. How about you not make yourself late having turf wars with the science department?"

"Won't happen again," Wes answers gravely.

Angel starts walking, and Wes falls in behind him. "This thing with you and Fred, is it new? Because if two of my department heads are at each other's throats, I sort of think I ought to know about it."

"No," Wesley says quickly. "No throats."

"Good, it's just –" Then he stops, looks at Wesley, and gives a tired smile . "When I heard you two going at it, I thought for a second that Cordelia was back --."

He lets the words hang in the air, with the weight of everything that has gone unsaid. Until Wesley manages a smile of his own, and lightly touches Angel's shoulder. "Good old days. When we were powerless and broke and we argued all the time."

Angel sighs. "Point taken. Seriously, you and Fred." He nods at the elevator. "Anything going on there that I should know about?"

Wesley shakes his head, knowing perfectly well that there are surveillance cameras in the elevators, and that keeping track of what's on them does not, in any way, border on near Angel's job description. And, as Fred explained -- gossip works by its own laws, like physics. They don't need to do anything to move it along. "Absolutely not," says Wesley. "I'm quite certain. Everything will be fine."

When Angel doesn't look quite convinced, Wesley repeats -- and, to his surprise, actually believes -- "Everything."

"All right, then," says Angel. He reaches over and -- perhaps not readjusted to his non-puppet strength -- gives Wesley an overenthusiastic slap on the back. "Come on. Let's get to work."


End file.
